King of Swords
by The Lady Nightingale
Summary: What if Dr Benjamin Adams and Dr Robert Helm had more in common than their profession? Methos' adventures in Santa Helena.
1. Coming & Going

Author's Note: I can't believe no one did this already. I really wanted to read it, so I had to write it. Please feel free to take the idea & do a better job, just let me know so I can enjoy it! The timelines simply won't work - travel taking time, especially in those days, but I don't care. Anyway, having seen Helm walk away from an explosion & fire caused by 'military explosives' in an office full of chemicals and glass instruments with no damage beyond a smoke-stained shirt, one had to wonder...

Also no new content to this chapter, just a quick grammar fix with thanks to Malady Pond du LesHeuresRoses - nice catch.

zZz

"Benjamin, don't leave me," she pleaded, tried to catch his hands. She was lovely, tousled from their lovemaking, but he did not pause. He wanted to smile at her, kiss her, and steal her away from her enslavement, but still he hurried upstairs and was gone. Captain Walker was too close and Benjamin Adams was a healer, not a fighter. He left Charlotte to face her master's anger alone.

The beautiful Negress was dead. She had died not an hour after she spoke those words - at the hands of the master from whom Adams had run. That knowledge didn't help Robert Helm as he shook himself fully awake, just as changing his name hadn't kept Charlotte from haunting his dreams. He had thought a sojourn in Europe would help. He had heard of a poet whose words would live forever, and - so the whispers said - whose entire self may yet do the same. Lord Byron was dangerous and already notorious, and such visible company meant that he had been all but invisible in the background. It had provided some welcome distraction and safety of sorts, but that was all.

One day he would claim not to have felt guilt since the eleventh century, and perhaps it was true. Certainly he was capable of regret, and the death of Charlotte was simply one more. Perhaps death was not journey's end, but another turn in the road, as he said to Mary; he didn't know what he believed anymore, but it had seemed to calm her. Would that the sentiment had the same effect on him. The stars were still glowing above him - it was not yet dawn, but he knew he would get no more sleep tonight. Besides, it was kinder on the horse to ride in the cool. He kicked out the fire, saddled his horse and rode on for California.

He had had to abandon Benjamin Adams when he left Switzerland. Walker was getting too close, in spite of his care in hiding in Byron's shadow. He hadn't had another identity ready to walk in to, which meant he had had to pick up an old one. Fortunately, although Robert Helm had a great deal of history in Europe, he was unknown in the New World. The tiny Spanish town was also unlikely to attract many of Helm's compatriots, and the fewer the safer. Perhaps there would be Spaniards who were fellow veterans of the penninsular war, but he had had little to do with England's allies. No one would recognise that he had looked then exactly as he did now.

zZz

It was time to go. Robert Helm had been in this place quite long enough.

He told himself even a fool like Walker would find Santa Helena eventually, especially since it was so close to the coast. Though he wished them well, Camilla's ship full of escaped slaves was unlikely to fail to attract attention - that kind of tale was endlessly repeated in sailor's bars, and in time would reach the ears of attentive slave captains. And if not Walker, then someone else who recognised that a doctor who never sickened, walked away from explosions and fought as well as distinguished soldiers was probably more than he seemed.

He told himself he couldn't cope much longer with the Spanish obsession with honour. Death before dishonour. Measuring honour. Honour at the point of a sword - even the women, for goodness sake! And it was contagious. He had found himself caring for slaves (again), fighting when he could have run or simply done nothing and generally siding with 'justice' rather than 'law'. Not a way to live forever.

He told himself he did not care for a woman who thought violence solved anything, but needed to hide behind a mask to enact it. He told himself he did not care for a woman who was self-centred and spoilt, no matter how vivacious her eyes. He told himself he could not care for both.

He was old enough to know he was a liar, and wise enough to accept himself as he was.


	2. Fever

zZz

The illness was unexpected. It started with the peasants and the soldiers, as usual; their living conditions hardly giving them a chance. From there it spread, person to person, with a rapidity that _was_ surprising, touching everyone from the barefoot children in the hovels to the Dons in their haciendas. Methos, currently living under the name Dr Robert Helm, knew he was safe from it, as he was safe from all infections and illnesses. No one - in the centuries he had practised medicine, off and on - had ever wondered why their doctor never succumbed to sickness. Perhaps they thought such robust immunity was what made a good doctor. What he was prone to, however, especially when there was only one doctor for a community this size (in terms of distance, not yet population), was exhaustion.

Colonel Montoya had sent for him, afraid he had caught the infection, too. With the tail of his eye the previous day, Methos had seen a man beg on his knees to be free from the call of soldiery. Most of the peasants did object to being enlisted, but not so violently - the pay was regular, afterall, not like farming. A few quiet questions revealed the man - beaten by Grisham for good measure - had a wife and children. The good Doctor Helm would probably hope Montoya did have the fever, had caught it from the men he had forced into his ranks. Methos wondered if perhaps it wasn't better to stick with the devil you knew.

"Breathe deeply," he instructed, listening as the Colonel tried. His mind was elsewhere, with his other patients, the ones who definately had the fever. Also it was with his own history. This scientific age was certainly better for the practice of medicine; drugs that could actually heal, equipment that made reliable diagnosis possible. Much better than staring at beakers of piss.  
"Again."  
"Where is my medicine?" demanded Montoya, and Methos pulled his attention sharply back,  
"Its gone."  
"Gone? Gone where?"  
"To the sick, oddly enough," he tried to continue his examination, but Montoya was behaving childishly,  
"You treat peasants before you treat your dying commander?" he exclaimed. Methos was used to patients like this - military men, particularly, who would take any wound in their stride, but bleat like sheep should they be struck with a common illness, "You're not dying, Colonel," he sighed, "At least not today. I can't even be sure you have the fever yet."  
"Don't you dare turn your back on me!" Methos had done all he could at this point, and was preparing to leave. After all, if he stayed, he could hardly prepare the drug Montoya and the others would need. He sighed again but did not turn, "I will make some more medicine, you can have it as soon as it's ready." Sometimes he felt more like a nursery maid than a doctor.

"You just remember this," began the Colonel. Ah, the threat Methos had expected. The man was as easy to read as a book. "Your duty is to me, and to me alone."  
"Death does not play favourites, Colonel, and neither do I," he was glad the Colonel was behind him. Methos hoped he kept the tiny smile out of his voice. He knew death in ways Montoya never would, never could; he wouldn't live long enough. He was barely listening as the mortal tried to have the last word, "As you rightly say, doctor, death is nobody's servant. You, however, are." He summoned guards, placed Helm under house arrest as his 'personal physician'. Well, hopefully the guards would keep other time-wasters from his door. And they wouldn't be a problem if he truly needed to get to the sick.

The guards did make it quieter, for a while. The inhabitants of Santa Helena tended not to cross their colonel. Except for brigands like the Queen of Swords. His hands busy, Methos mused on the chemical he was distilling. In a less scientific age, he would have simply prescribed chewing the bark itself, which may have taken longer and had higher risks of damage to the liver, but would have provided a similar relief. Now, he would be run out of town as a quack for suggesting such a thing, and anyone who did try it would probably think themselves out of any benefit. He shook his head slightly, wondering - not for the first time - at the foolishness of mortals.

Of course, the guards did not keep Montoya from bothering him. The peasant-soldier blundered in to his office - Methos was mildly surprised the man didn't destroy anything before demanding, "Colonel Montoya wants you."  
"I'm working," he responded calmly, which was, afterall, what Montoya wanted him to do.  
"It's not a request." Methos really didn't need this, and he felt not the slightest concern for the soldier's orders, particularly when he glanced up and found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. "Does the Colonel want me in attendance or in a coffin? Hmm?" He disarmed the man without a second thought and dumped the weapon in a convenient pot of water. "Thank the Colonel for his invitation." He heard the sword drawn, which honestly frightened him more, but he wasn't going to let that show, "Would you like to lose your sword as well? Tell him I'll look in as soon as I can." The guard, deciding discretion was the better part of valour, retreated through the door.

Methos didn't like dying. Even knowing he would come back, he tended to avoid situations that were nominally dangerous. It was awkward and annoying to either have to disappear unexpectedly, or worse, to have to explain miraculous survivals. The soldier was never really a danger to him - even out of practise he was fairly certain he was better than that fool - but it did make him think. Especially since his own sword had been out of reach. Once this plague had run it's course, and he'd caught up on his sleep, he really needed to start building his next identity. That certainty was reinforced later that evening. Who would have thought walking across the square in a little, out of the way place like this would be so dangerous? Methos had heard his attacker before he struck, but at least he hadn't _felt_ him, or anyone else. He was confident he would recover consciousness with his head still attached. And that was a comfort even if he had to begin again with the salicylic acid. Dr Helm may have had reflexes trained as, among other things, one of Wellington's exploring officers, but even he could not have said who hit him in the dark. Unless she herself was sick, Methos could think of no reason the Queen of Swords should steal medicine unless it was to sell it back. Or to kill someone who needed it.

He could really grow to hate willow bark. Methos decided Dr Helm needed to send away for a pharmacist to join his practice, or to move to a larger town that already had one. The woman who entered his office was a beautiful as she was irritating and she certainly wasn't a pharmacist. Perhaps he'd stay anyway, at least for a while, "There's a sound that's made when a knuckle encounters wood. It's customarily used before entering. I don't know if you've ever heard of it - it's called 'knocking'." She appeared to take no notice of his irritation, to be oblivious,  
"Really doctor? I must try it sometime. How's the medicine coming?" Methos had no idea what she was looking for, or at, he just wanted her out of the way. The sooner he could deal with their beloved colonel, the less likely his guards were to shoot him, and the better chance he could continue hiding in Santa Helena. Methos was sure the woman had said more, he may have snapped at her - he wasn't sure. He also didn't care.

The explosion killed Dr Helm instantly. He should have been paying more attention, Methos decided later. Of course, he could not have paid attention to anything other than the extremely delicate instrumentation at just that point in the process, but that was the benefit of hindsight. His shuddering in-drawn breath was full of smoke, and five thousand years of self-preservation instincts drove him out the door shouting, "Get water! Get water! Come on!" He had no interest in pretending to remain a corpse in order to be burned alive. "No, senorita! It's too dangerous!" She had actually tried to get past him, into the fire.  
"The medicine!" she cried. It was Senorita Alvarado.  
"It's gone," he declared, instead focusing on directing villagers with buckets to fight the blaze. Grisham ambled over, made no offer to assist instead suggesting,  
"Be careful with your chemicals, doctor." Methos' mind had caught up with his body now, and he wondered why the man responsible for maintaining the town's safety was so unconcerned, "There was nothing in there that would cause an explosion." He also wondered at the change in Senorita Alvarado from vacuous young woman to attempted selfless heroine. Grisham did not seem to appreciate the challenge in Helm's tone, "Well, I guess we'll just call it an unlucky accident, then. Excuse me."

Later, sifting through the wreckage of his office, Methos found the missing piece of information. It wasn't the Queen who was trying to thwart his efforts at saving lives. After he figured that out, it was simply a matter of walking through to the conclusion. Convince Montoya. Follow Grisham. Locate the salicylic acid. Perhaps he ought not to have been so flashy with Grisham and the Queen, but he had had a moment of weakness. Methos admitted to himself he was tired of being written off as 'not a killer'. He _was_ a killer. He was _Death_. Just because he had grown tired of riding out of the sun to destroy someone's world, didn't mean he was no longer capable of formulating a plan, or firing a pistol. And just because he was capable of firing a pistol, didn't mean he was necessarily going to admit all his skills.

When the Queen of Swords took the vial of medicine from his hand he thought for a moment it had all been for nothing. That he had been wrong about Grisham, about everything. Montoya had told him she was a brigand, and he had, for a moment, thought the Spaniard wrong. Then she took only a pinch, "For a friend," and he was surprised and absurdly grateful - most of the sick did not have time for him to make more, and while Methos was more than accustomed to death, unnecessary death was an offense to the healer he was trying to be. "Thank you."  
"Thank you. That was a remarkable shot, doctor." There was something about her that meant he couldn't resist replying,  
"I'll send you my bill in the morning."

He made sure all his patients - not just the colonel, not just the soldiers, _all_ \- were treated in due time. Once the recoveries had started, he felt a lot better about his earlier childishness. Methos also decided the local Spanish community's obsession with parties was ludicrous. It wasn't that he disliked parties, he assured himself, rather that two parties in his honour in a matter of - what had it been, days? Weeks? Too little time, anyway - drew far too much attention. Methos had learned that survival involved not being noticed. Even the Horsemen had eventually drawn those obsessed with hunting them down, and it only took one lucky thrust to render even an Immortal unable to fight back, and heads are much simpler trophies to carry than whole bodies. Wishing for good beer, he poured himself a glass of wine and thanked whatever gods were still listening for the - hopefully permanent - dissolution of the Four Horsemen.

Methos could live with this kind of party - decent food, relative cool and no one drawing undue attention to him. Unfortunately, Montoya intervened. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?," he held up a glass, "To a man who risked his life to make sure everyone received... what was that concoction, doctor?" Methos had turned away, not really wanting his praises sung just now and aware how little the 'risk' had really been. "Salicylic acid, from willow bark."  
"To Doctor Helm, who's bark is much better than his bite." The assembled worthies duly tittered and Montoya commanded, "Music!"

Avoiding as many of the Dons as possible, Methos found his way around to Senorita Alvarado's gypsy woman. He had been, afterall, god-king pharaoh and slave boy and everything in-between; talking with servants was hardly beneath him, and he wanted to know more about this strange change from self-absorbed to selfless. He had recalled their conversation in his office, before the explosion, and it was this woman's illness that had prompted it. Methos did not get very far with his subtle enquiries before the woman herself appeared, "Senorita." Marta included her mistress in the conversation,  
"The doctor informs me it was actually the Queen of Swords who recovered the medicine for him." The young lady looked surprised,  
"The Queen of Swords?"  
"Yes," credit where it was due, and any distraction from the idea of him being someone who could fight was welcome.  
"Is that true?" Her incrudulity was amusing to watch.  
"Yes, it is."  
"But I thought she was a criminal?" So had he, come to think of it. Not that he objected to criminality as much as the rich senorita apparently,  
"Who knows what goes on in her mind?" She smiled a strange smile, a teasing smile,  
"Come on doctor, what do you think?" Methos realised he did not have all the pieces to this puzzle and it might be best to withdraw,  
"I think it's best never to rush to a diagnosis. Ladies," he excused himself. He did not catch the look shared between the woman and her mistress, but he might have retreated all the swifter if he had.

zZz


	3. Vengeance

Vengeance

Methos loved harvest festivals. Through the ages they were always bright, always hopeful. Presupposing, of course, that there was enough harvest for a festival. Oh, midwinter festivals could be fun, too, but a good harvest festival never had the undertone of fear, the faint concern about what would happen if the sacrifice _wasn't_ accepted, the sun _didn't_ return. Blood on the snow. Blood didn't bother him, but Methos would still take a good harvest festival, any day.

Watching the boys trying to climb the pole brought back memories of other boys, other harvest days. The children he remembered wore linen kilts and were climbing - much more successfully - a date palm on the edge of the great river. They'd never thought of it with any other name. There was only one river, none could match it. Methos and the pyramids had been young then, and the great Nile and the people it sheltered already old. He missed Egypt, his Egypt; wonderful, stable retreat that it had been. There had never been a civilisation like it. Perhaps he should set up his next identity to go 'decipher' that stele, what had they called it? He'd heard about its acquisition from the French while passing through the British Museum a few years ago. It would be nice to read someone else's heiroglyphics again, even if the Ptolemys weren't really his favourite dynasty.

The presence of another like himself made him draw a sudden breath and glance around, though he tried to hide it in greeting a dancing couple. The other was young, and Methos allowed himself to hope that it was simply a wanderer, someone passing through. He headed for the centre of the festivities; he wasn't armed but even the young weren't foolish enough to face off where there were witnesses. The man he found himself next to looked as concerned as he felt, "Don Aguilera, not enjoying the harvest fiesta?"  
"No, must be the heat," answered the other, but the look remained - the one that said a great deal more than his words. A small boy appeared, carrying a watermelon almost larger than himself and for a moment when it exploded Methos couldn't quite process what had happened.

The Don was lucky to be alive; a man his age and the shock of the bolt, but Methos had to hurry. For his own sake as well as Aguilera's. It made perfect sense to urge, "My office is too far - we'll take him into the church." Thank God for the pervasive Catholicism of the Spanish. He wasn't sure such a suggestion would have seemed so obvious in another culture - even the California he had only recently left. He drew the crowd with him - as assistants to carry the prone man and as onlookers until he reached Holy Ground. Only once there, with the back of his neck no longer cringing from the expected blow and his hands no longer clutching for weapons 'Dr Helm' didn't carry, was he able to focus on his patient.

The man's son was full of questions, questions no one but whatever god or gods noticed human lives could answer. Certainly not a country doctor. And certainly not in the midst of a complicated opperation. Methos understood the boy's need to ask, but he could offer no reassurance save "I'm doing my best." He tried to focus on the Don and his wound, but his head throbbed with the sense of the other outside, and the boy's questions were not helping. Five thousand years of self discipline kept his answers calm, but even a thousand years experience as a physician of one sort and another was not likely to help Don Aguilera now. The bolt was broadheaded, made for slicing flesh, made to kill and that was exactly what it was doing. Senorita Alverado brought bandages, and left with the boy, and Methos was grateful.

Methos didn't notice the comings and goings outside. Well, he noticed the departure of the other Immortal, but that was all. Nuns came and went, and others carrying bandages. Someone may have urged him to eat, but he wasn't sure. When the young one came prowling around again in the night, he felt vindicated in his choice to remain in the church. He did find it slightly concerning - more than slightly - that the other was out there and armed, probably still with that crossbow. Surely he - she? - would have been taught better manners than to 'kill' at a distance. Driving someone out of their home by making them seem to have died wasn't against the rules, but it was probably bad form. Methos himself wouldn't have shied from it, to save his own life, but damnit this creature was hunting _him_.

Don Aguilera's death, late in the night, saddened but did not surprise him. It had been something of a miracle he lasted as long as he did, not that that would be any comfort to the boy currently leading an army of farmhands outside the church door. "What is the meaning of this display?" demanded Montoya outside, just as Methos was reaching the church doors to inform the bereaved young man. "These men are from my hacienda." Methos decided he would wait a moment - hopefully Montoya would frighten the boy into obedience, or at least order him to await some sort of investigation before embarking on a typical Spanish quest for blood. "Send them home!"  
"One of your soldiers lies dead in the hotel. Two more lie unconscious," Ramon threatened.  
"I am quite capable of doing the arithmatic."  
"But not of protecting my father."  
"Do not test me, young man, unless you and your men are prepared to suffer the consequences." Montoya was not being as successful as he had hoped, so Methos interrupted, "Ramon..." Even after a thousand years' practise there really was nothing that could be said at a time like this except, "I'm sorry." From capable young man to bereft child in a heartbeat, he pushed past the doctor to reach his father's side crying "Papa?". Methos had seen it too often.

"An unexpected development, doctor," Montoya offered, not quite a question. Methos didn't think it was unexpected at all but explained anyway,  
"There was so much bleeding, there was nothing I could do." It was clear to him that Montoya was also saddened, in his own way, at the loss.  
"Ah well, one more for the angels." The passing bell began, and Dr Helm made for his office.

It spoke to the state of Methos' nerves that, knowing the other Immortal was _not_ in his office, he still jumped when he saw his late-night visitor. Just now he did not need to deal with the Queen. "Don Aguilera," she began, acknowledging the bell.  
"It's been a long day," he cautioned, and when she began to offer platitudes he refused them, "Your sympathy is wasted on me." It was clear she was chastened, but equally clear she was not going to leave, "I'm looking for someone, thought maybe you could help. Recognise him?"

The picture. The plans. Another life. He hadn't wanted to kill that boy. He had already been tired of killing, but he couldn't take the risk. What would this slip of a girl know about that kind of regret? "Where did you get that?"

He hoped, knowing it was impossible, that it had nothing to do with the events of the day. His breath was short, and he hated himself for it. Methos had thought to find a little peace here. Was that too much to ask? "The assassin wasn't after Don Aguilera, was he? He was trying to kill you." As if that was all it was - if it was only a mortal assassin, Dr Helm was a disposable alias now. "You get out!" he ordered, but she was in no mood to listen.

"Now that the Don is dead, Ramon will stop at nothing to avenge his father."  
He didn't want that, of course, but, "I am not responsible for what Ramon does." She tried to make him feel guilt, but that could work two ways, "The man you took that from?"  
"He got away." He might, just might, have been prepared to admit this least of all his faults if she had managed to get rid of the one who was coming for him - even temporarily. "So he's still alive? Well, let Ramon believe what he believes. Safer that way."  
"You can't be serious?" But he was, deadly serious,  
"This is my business. You stay the hell out."  
"Looks like I'm not the only one who hides behind a mask." It was meant to be cutting, but he had been at this far too long to be disconcerted.

If only there was some way of knowing who it was who hunted him. Dr Helm had stayed clear of Immortals, in the main. Certainly there had been no serious entanglements, and he didn't recall running from any Challenges. Of course, there were others _around_ but he didn't think any of them had any reason to recognise him, let alone to track him down like this. The crossbow was an interesting choice of weapon, and he would certainly remember it in future, but there was nothing more than that to work with, and no way to convince the rather-too-devious Montoya he wasn't involved. At least the prowler on the edge of his awareness was unlikely to shoot him in front of the main official of the town. All the same, he didn't sleep well - even with his sword and loaded pistol in hand.

The following morning's clinic was a trial. What he really wanted was something like the plague of the previous weeks to hold his attention, not a bunch of old women with vague ailments, let alone Señorita Alvorado who only ever seemed to turn up in order to gossip. She needed to make friends with the little blonde Doña. Who could possibly understand the Spanish? Perhaps he should have headed for Australia when he left Switzerland. The Señorita seemed to think facing death for the sake of family honour 'thrilling' and 'romantic' - not how he considered the thing at all, but he was much older than she.

She did understand the Spanish soul, and he had seen them at the fiesta, so he accepted she knew Ramon better than he. Methos supposed the young man was now the new Don Aguilera, with responsibility through the hacienda for perhaps dozens of people, families. The English traitor would have been tried and executed anyway. Methos did not want another young man to die if he could avoid it - he was trying to be a healer.

Methos probably allowed just a bit more of himself to show than he wanted to - arranging to meet on Holy Ground. It probably meant nothing to the warring parties, but perhaps it did, somewhere deep in their psyches. "Got your message. I'm here," said Ramon.  
"Thank you for coming," Methos began. The boy had much to do, and the impatience of youth. "I promise you this is important." The arrival of Don Fuentes precipitated a scuffle, and Methos threw himself between the two men. If either had been thinking, they would have been surprised at the strength of the man they thought of only as a doctor. "Still alive you bastard!" cried Ramon, and Methos turned on him,  
"I intend to keep it that way." Unfortunately the older man was just as hot-headed,  
"You have one minute to explain yourself, doctor!"  
"It was me."  
"You're not making sense."  
"I was the target, not Aguilera."

The admission at least stopped them fighting, and they appeared to be able to agree on one thing, at least, "You're crazy!"  
"It's the truth. The bolt that killed your father was meant for me. I'm so sorry, Ramon. Your father was killed in the crossfire - if I could change places with him now..." Methos realised 'Dr Helm' probably would have, too. Time for a change.  
"Why would anybody want to kill you?"

"Many reasons!" In his attempts to keep his alias under control, too much of Methos was getting out, "But they will go to the grave with me!"  
"Why should I believe you?"  
"Look at me!" he shouted - for reasons Methos didn't completely understand, he needed this boy to believe him, and he let the darkness out, just a little, "Look into my eyes. That is not life you see. That is Death. And Death leaves a trail."

Methos had promised himself that as soon as another Immortal found him - friendly or not - he would leave Santa Helena. As he rode through the hills he was surprised by how difficult that was. At least he need not fear the desert, though having plenty of water was much to be prefered than dying of thirst over and over again. When he first heard the approaching horse, he really didn't know if it was the other Immortal or not - too far for his sense to pick up, and better prepared than not. Finding it was not the assassin, he still wanted to know who had any business following him.

Unfortunately he misjudged the fall, and lost the advantage. "With those kind of moves, no wonder you're still single," Why did it have to be the Queen of Swords? "Either slit my throat and get it over with, or take your knee off my..." she didn't let him finish, revealing a delicacy he hadn't suspected.  
"Alright, alright. What the hell are you doing leaping off rocks?"  
"What the hell are you doing following me?"  
"Tell me why you're leaving town?" He almost smiled at the game they seemed to play whenever they met,  
"Tell me who's under the mask?"  
"I asked first."

Frustrated again he returned to his attempt to leave Dr Helm and his pursuer - both his pursuers now - behind. One at least was not going to be ignored, "I'm talking to you."  
"This is all your fault." First driving him out of town, and now no horse, no water - and no sword.  
"Are you looking for something?" the innocent tone she invested in the question seemed calculated to drive him mad,  
"My horse," he bit down on his temper, but it couldn't last in the face of,  
"Horse?""  
"Horse. Equus. Four legs, big head, long tail?" but she wasn't going to bite, and then she had the nerve to accuse him of running.

Methos acknowledged that he probably seemed to run away - to many people, irritating Spanish girls in lace masks not least. But he didn't. Not in his mind, anyway. "I am not running away. I am walking." Walking away - to preserve something of himself, to keep the fragile mortals around him safe, abandoning the life he had built up for himself to die alone in the desert yet one more time.

But she wouldn't let him go, let him leave. He tried to explain what it meant, "The only way to stop him is to kill him."  
"And you refuse to take a life, even to save your own?"  
"I swore an oath. I'm a doctor now." If only it were that simple. She could not understand. Five thousand years of living - hell, _one_ thousand years - surely was enough to learn to do something more difficult, more useful, than killing. "That man in the sketch, the one with the beard. Who is he?"  
"That man is dead." Methos had laid Dr Helm to rest once already, and he had a new identity prepared well. If he had to become 'Nathan' a few years early, so be it.

He had intended to send her off in a flurry of dust, rather than send himself tumbling down the ravine. "Doctor? Are you all right?"  
"Go!" Left with no choice, and with Montoya closing in, she fled along the top of the ravine without him. Methos told himself he was pleased. Better than having her a witness to the lightening - or worse.

"Quickly or slowly? How do you want to die?" Why did people never listen? He did not want to die. Particularly not like this.  
"Who are you?"  
"Vengeance." Surely he had a right to know which particular sin this man aimed to punish; clearly this young immortal didn't know enough of who he was dealing with, "I don't understand."  
"Ian Latham was my brother." That did give Methos pause but only for a moment, and not for the reasons Latham seemed to expect - this one was _very_ young if he still thought of the traitor as his brother. Methos hadn't even felt his presence, at the time. "That's it. Now you remember. The man you murdered."  
"That wasn't murder, that was war!"

Methos wished Latham would get rid of the crossbow. Latham hadn't drawn his sword, and with the projectile weapon out of the mix Methos had a better chance. "Doctor," Latham sneered, "Killer is more like it."  
"Not anymore."  
"You think death is something you can wear one day and not the next?" Latham was on very dangerous ground here indeed, if he had but known it, "Tell me you don't dream of it still. All that blood? And the death? Tell me!" Maybe, just maybe, the young one got a hint of the darkness that lay hidden behind Robert Helm when the man he had challeneged answered with just the beginning of the ages of destruction he had seen, "I can't."

"My brother was no spy," Latham insisted. As if it mattered. But if it mattered so much to him, perhaps it was worth explaining the unexplainable,  
"He was seen talking with the French, he had the documents on him..." Latham was crazed, unwilling to accept the evidence that would have made his brother's trial a formality before the execution, "Ian was innocent!"  
"I had no choice. I had my orders."  
"The thing about vengeance: it gets sweeter with age. Goodbye, doctor."

Methos had never been so happy to see a bandit in his life. "Care to try for two out of three?" She offered Latham. Normally, he'd be more than happy for her to fight his battles, but mortals couldn't get involved in the Game - he knew where that would lead, "Not her!" It was clear the Queen understood more was going on than she knew, but at least she curbed her tongue. "It's me you want," he continued, "Come on, you bastard!" At least he read the mysterious Queen well enough that he didn't end up unarmed.

Latham wasn't a bad swordsman, and his opening attack could have been successful. Methos parried and jumped away, taking advantage of the terrain. He was also not above using his elbow, or any other advantage. When he managed to take the advantage and lay his sword to Latham's neck the other taunted, "Still got the taste for blood, doctor?"  
"Let it go," Methos asked, but he knew the other wouldn't, and when he again held the upper hand he paused, reining in the creature he had once been.  
"What are you waiting for?" taunted Latham, "You're a killer." And the noise of battle filled Methos' ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying and he wanted oh so much he wanted to take the fool's head and feel the power of the Quickening.

It wasn't the audience that stopped him or the oath he had taken, but something of Doctor Helm that had taken root in the old man's soul. That and the notion of payback. The Queen had given him the means to save his life, possibly he should ensure she didn't loose hers as a result. "Drop the crossbow, Colonel."  
"Dr Helm, have you completely lost your mind?"  
"You bargained for my life," Methos had been auctioned off at the slave block, as well as a war lord with captives for sale and he much preferred to be the one doing the bargaining. "I am sure there has been some misunderstanding."  
"No, Colonel, you and I understand each other perfectly: drop the crossbow."  
"I am sure we can work something out. If you would just be so kind as to run your sword through the young lady behind me..."  
"Which young lady is that?" Montoya looked, but of course the Queen was long gone,  
"Damn her! Damn her to be so close! To smell the scent of her blood!"

Suddenly, Latham leaped and Methos was caught off guard. He jumped back in the vain hope of escape. Montoya, however, was not off guard. The bolt that lodged itself in Latham's torso surprised Methos as much as it did Latham himself. He could say nothing more than, "You're a complicated man, you know that?"  
"Not really. Killers and assassins are... how you say?... a dime a dozen. Where would I find another doctor?" Methos wondered if Montoya knew that he had before him all three - killer, assassin and doctor - and concluded he probably suspected more than was good for 'Dr Helm'.

Much later, when he had relocated his horse and all his equipment, Methos found he was not alone in Dr Helm's office. "Either you're a messy housekeeper or..." He smiled at her tone, "I'm staying."

zZz

Author's Note: I recognise that Methos claims not to have faced anyone for 200 years, and that that statement was made sometime in the 1990s. I figure that, for someone who counts his age in millenia, 170 years might as well be 200 years. Also he's not the sort of person who's going to be completely honest about that kind of thing - or anything really ("Why would I tell the truth?").


End file.
